


Check, Please

by sabinelagrande



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, In Public, No Sex, Pre-Bahrain, Pre-Canon, Sexual Brinkmanship, Sexual Fantasy, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:57:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all fun and games until someone gets a hard-on in public. Then it's <em>really</em> fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check, Please

It's been a pretty good day. They're undercover in Boston, which is nice this time of year, though Melinda thinks it's too cold. Phil and Melinda have been doing a lot of undercover work together for the last few months, mixed in with other ops. This is convenient, because they've also been doing each other for the last few months, and there's nothing quite like undercover work to give you opportunities to tap dance around protocols.

As long as everything goes smoothly, this is their next to last night here. Tomorrow night there will be either a quick in-and-out or a massive catastrophe; Phil's hoping for the former, if no other reason than if it's the latter, he's probably not going to be around to lament it. Either way, there's nothing to be done about it right now. He's already checked and rechecked their gear so many times that even Melinda said he was obsessing. She's the one who dragged them out here, to a little restaurant not far from their hotel.

"I can't believe you're eating ice cream when it's freezing outside," Melinda says, wrapping her hands around her cup of tea.

"I can't believe you're not," Phil says. "This stuff is amazing." He holds up the spoon. "Want a bite? This is your last chance."

"I'm good," Melinda says, and Phil shrugs, eating it himself. "I think I might have some more tea," she says, and then in a lower voice, she adds, "and when we get back to the hotel, I'm going to sit on your face."

He freezes. "Excuse me?"

She dabs her mouth with her napkin. "You heard me."

Phil takes a quick look around, surveying the restaurant. It's not very big, but it's fairly empty, the nearest occupied table about fifteen feet away. It's an important consideration, because he knows this game. He also knows Melinda would never start it unless it was safe, but free insurance is always worth the price.

The game is simple. Phil would tell you it's important, a way to practice hiding in plain sight and controlling your physical reactions; Melinda, being more direct, would tell you it's hot. Either way, all you need to do is keep talking.

Phil considers for a moment whether he wants to actually do this. Melinda is markedly better at it than him, and he has the strong disadvantage of his physical reactions being much more readily visible. Obviously, he's going to do it anyway. If he loses, he has to do whatever Melinda tells him. Was he ever not going to do that?

His foot is resting against hers under the table- probably, unless he's been cozied up to a table leg instead- and he slides it back, withdrawing into his own space. There are only two rules, and one of them is that there is no physical contact.

"Tell me more," he says, as an opening gambit. It's not going to fool her; she also knows she's better, and if he gets her talking, it might backfire on her.

"Are you unclear about any part of that?" she asks. "I thought it was fairly simple." She sips her tea, looking at him over the rim of her cup. "You'll have to elaborate, so that I can explain."

Damn. Caught. "Well, there are multiple ways that scenario can play out," he says. "I need to know if you'll want me on my back on the bed, or on the floor, or if you mean that term literally at all."

"Oh, I mean it literally," she assures him. "I'm going to put you on the bed and wrap my thighs around your head."

"That's intriguing," Phil says. "I'm intrigued."

"I'm sure you are," Melinda says. "I know you love it. You'd spent all day with your face in my cunt if I let you."

"Who said I wouldn't?" he says mildly, sipping his water. "Are you going to pretend you're doing it selflessly?"

Melinda raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

"Are you going to act like you're doing it for my benefit?" he asks. "You know I love it, but I love getting you off any way I can do it. Are you going to tell me you want to sit on my face just to make me happy, or is it because you know that nobody's ever made you come like I can?"

"You're cocky," she says.

"You've said it before," Phil replies, shrugging.

"Screaming something and saying something are not the same thing, Phil," she tells him.

"Whatever you say," he says.

She doesn't rise to the taunt. "If all you want is to get me off, maybe I should just tie you to the bed and make you watch."

That's not fair, and she knows it isn't; that's a fantasy of his they've never actually tried. Bondage has never been exactly feasible for them, and Phil's very aware that there's no amount of mind over matter that would stop him from pouncing. "That seems a little boring, now that I think about it," Phil says dismissively.

"You're lying," Melinda says. "You're thinking about it right now, and you can't wait to do it."

Phil looks up, seeing the waiter approach, and taps twice on the table with his thumb. The waiter is on Melinda's six, and she might not see him in time; the second and probably more important of this game's rules is that other people are not to be involved. This is their thing, and that poor guy didn't come to work today to listen to people talk dirty to each other.

"How is everything?" the waiter asks.

"Just great," Phil says, resolutely not saying any of the things he's thinking. He looks at Melinda. "You wanted more tea, right?"

"I'd love some," Melinda says, answering his challenge.

"Then I'll bring some right out," the waiter says, hopefully oblivious to what's going on here. Phil thinks there's very little chance that he knows anything is off, but he should still probably give the guy a big tip anyway.

"You were saying?" Phil says politely, when the waiter is out of earshot again.

"You were thinking," Melinda corrects. "I wonder how you'd like to see it. I can always use my hand."

"I'm insulted," he says. "If you'd pick your hand over me, then that's just distressing."

"I like it because it distresses you," she tells him. "You wouldn't be able to stop me. You'd just have to watch while I used substandard methods, wishing you could fix it."

"Oh, believe me, I could," he says.

"I'm very aware," she says. "Maybe I'd be a little more merciful."

"What exactly constitutes mercy in this situation?" Phil asks. "I feel like I'm being treated kinda badly here."

"I'd let you watch me fuck myself," she replies, and Phil has to dig his fingernails into his thigh to not make a noise or lunge across the table or do anything similarly unfortunate. "I'd find the biggest toy I could take and ride it right in front of you."

Phil takes a long sip of his water; he knows that it's a screamingly big tell, but he needs a second. "I still don't see the mercy in that," he says. "You're still keeping me from-"

Melinda suddenly taps twice on the table with her ring finger, and Phil immediately stops talking; people have just been seated behind him. He answers with a tap of his index finger. _Time to stop?_

Melinda taps her index finger and pinkie. _Proceed with caution._

Phil waits a moment before turning around. The table, two young women, is close, but they're in a high-backed booth; Phil doubts they can hear much of anything outside it. While Phil's still deciding, the waiter comes by and inobtrusively delivers Melinda's tea, which is a blessing. He's not sure how many interruptions he can take.

"Can't get rid of me that easily," Phil says, speaking more softly. It's time to change the subject; he was losing before, and what he needs is to turn it around on her as fast as he can. "You think you're going to win because I'm going to be distracted by being hard- and I am, so we're clear, that's not what I'm saying." He leans forward. "But you're wet right now, so I don't think you're in a position to judge."

Even Melinda's control is imperfect, especially at a time like this. Phil sees her tense momentarily, caught flat-footed. He knew he was right, obviously, or he wouldn't have said it, but it's very satisfying to see how much it throws her.

"I can't see your breasts through that sweater," Phil says, pushing it a little more, "but I know your nipples are getting hard, too. Is that uncomfortable? I've always wondered why they make bras out of that scratchy material. You must be able to feel it every time you move."

"It can't feel anywhere near as uncomfortable than your pants do right now," she returns, which is incredibly true. "Also, I'm not wearing a bra."

"Six of one," Phil says, shrugging. He didn't see her get dressed and doesn't know whether she's telling the truth or not, but he also knows he hit his target. Melinda, though she looks like she's trying to fight it, is clearly starting to feel it. Her defenses are weak right now, and she's fallen victim to the power of suggestion, suddenly become aware of something that was under the radar before.

Phil wonders, not for the first time, if this is something normal people do in restaurants- or, indeed, ever. If he meets any, maybe he'll ask.

"So you've been thinking about it," Melinda says, which throws Phil for a loop. "That's not something people pluck out of midair. You've been wondering if I've been sitting over here with my thighs pressed together, hoping you won't realize I'm dripping wet from having this conversation."

"Dripping is maybe going a little far," Phil says.

"How would you know?" she replies, with a little smile. "And either way, you only care because you want to fuck me as soon as possible."

"I thought that was pretty obvious," he says, because right now he feels like there's a giant neon sign over his head. "And you want me inside you. We're evenly matched."

"I severely doubt that," Melinda says. "What would you do if I came over there right now and sat in your lap?"

"Get us both arrested," Phil responds. He can think of some really amazing things, each more acrobatic than the last, but they all fall under that heading.

"Exactly," she says. "Look at you. I bet I could make you come right now without even trying."

"You'd have to do _some_ trying," he points out. "You're trying right now."

"This is nothing," Melinda says. "If I really wanted to make you desperate, I'd-"

Phil almost groans in frustration when Melinda stops mid-sentence, tapping over and over with her middle finger. That's the worst one: kids are approaching. Sure enough, soon a whole herd of them comes streaming by, beleaguered parents in tow. Melinda puts her hand flat on the table. _Unsafe to continue._

Phil nods. He lays his hand palm up next to hers, smirking, trying to act like he isn't grateful for the reprieve and wasn't about to fold like a cheap card table. _Yield?_

Melinda just gives him a look.

Phil sighs, rapping on the table twice. _You win._

"Excuse me," Melinda says, flagging down their waiter. "Could we have the check?"

"Of course, ma'am," he says, producing it from his apron and setting it down on the table. "Whenever you're ready."

When he's gone, Melinda picks it up and hands it to Phil. "You're sticking me with the check too?" he says, though it's really just for the look of the thing.

"Yep," she says, completely unrepentant.

Phil sighs, pulling out his wallet and putting a few bills in the folder. "You do know it's going to be a minute before I can leave, right?" he points out. "I don't have any intention of teaching those kids about the finer points of male anatomy."

Melinda stands, picking up her coat. "I'm too warm," she says, holding it out. "Carry this for me, honey."

It is sometimes annoying to Phil how well he and Melinda can do the stereotypical imperious wife and whipped husband combo. "Anything for you, babe," he says, playing into it, strategically placing the coat so that he's covered when he stands up.

"Thanks," she says, pecking him on the cheek and walking away, leaving her to follow him.

Phil puts his shoulders back and resolutely walks out of the restaurant. All he has to do is get out of there, get to the car, get back to the hotel, and then get Melinda naked. Those are the things that are truly important to his life right now, and as long as he keeps this coat over his crotch and stays focused, everything will be fine.

Admittedly, he's focused on requisition form codes. They're the least sexy thing he can think of, and there's only so much he can be expected to handle.

\--

"Do you remember that game we used to play?" Phil asks, thousands of miles away and over a decade later. He'd like to say that they spent it together, and he'd like to say things went better than they did; for today, though, it's warm and sunny, and even though the courtyard of the Playground isn't exactly the most cheerful or inviting place in the world, it feels nice to be out here, just the two of them.

"What game?" Melinda asks.

He taps his fingers against the table. "You know what game."

Melinda raises an eyebrow. "The one where we'd spend twenty minutes riling each other up, and then you'd have to limp out of a restaurant?"

"Yeah," Phil says, though it's not exactly the most complimentary description.

"Are you trying to get me to play?" she asks.

"Do you want to play?" he says, maybe a little hopeful.

Melinda snorts. "It was such a waste of time."

"That's a little harsh," Phil says, feeling disappointed. "I didn't think-"

"It was a waste," she says, cutting him off, "because in the amount of time we sat there getting frustrated and traumatizing the busboys, you could have made me come two or three times."

"Check, please," Phil calls, to an imaginary waiter, and Melinda smirks at him. "You have this look like you don't think I'm serious."

"I know you're serious," Melinda says, standing up. "That's why it's funny." She walks behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders and leaning down to whisper in his ear. "My room. Be there in ten minutes or I start without you."

"I don't think we actually traumatized any busboys," Phil says, as she walks away, leaving him to collect their plates and take them back in. "We would have noticed."

"Nine minutes," she replies, pushing the door and going inside.

Phil will be there in twelve. The way he sees it, it's not a threat. It's a promise.


End file.
